58th Hunger Games!
by hayleymills
Summary: SYOT: Open! Male spots for 2 and 8. District Eleven Reapings up.
1. Tribute List

**A/n: Welcome to the 58****th**** annual Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor! **

**This is a submit your own tribute fic. (My third, actually. My other two got deleted by the site after they were already completed).Tributes are only accepted by PM and they are NOT first come first serve! Trust me, I'd love to accept every tribute that got sent my way but sadly, I have plans for the story that only work with certain tributes. (Some Sues might be accepted for bloodbath tributes. If you'd like to make a bloodbath just mention it in your form and I'll accept it no matter what). Make sure you have tons of description in your personality, friends, and family department! I write a chapter for each reaping, and it's lovely to have an exact picture of what you want, so I don't have to improvise. **

**Reserving tributes is okay! If you don't get back to me in a few days, though, I'm going to open up the spot again. I want to start this as soon as possible and I'm sure everyone else does too. **

**Your penname: **

**Tribute's Name: **

**Age: **

**Gender: **

**District (3 choices please): **

**Personality: **

**Appearance: **

**History: **

**Family: **

**Friends: **

**Reaped/Volunteered?:**

**Token: **

**Goodbyes: **

**Training Strategy: **

**Interview Strategy: **

**Interview Outfit: **

**Arena Strategy: **

**Weapon of Choice: **

**Alliance: **

**Open to Romance: **

**Strengths (max of 3): **

**Weaknesses (min of 3): **

_**District Eight, Ellah Fitz, 12**_

Milli wraps her arms around my neck, shivering from cold or fear or who knows what. I close my eyes as I carry her out of the town hall, taking deep breaths. _Calm down, Ellah. Calm down. You're not going to get picked. Your name is only in there once. _

Reaping Day is tomorrow. And I know what the arena is going to be.

It was an accident, I swear. Mama cleans the mayor's house, and we were just looking for her. She had said she was going to be there today. But I had never counted on Milli and I stumbling upon an urgent message from the Capitol to the mayors. It was on the television. And it was an accident. I try to shake the thought out of my head, to clear my mind.

But as we arrive at our doorstep and I put a crying Milli to bed, I know that I am never going to get the images of those steep cliffs, sharp edges, and snapping fish out of my mind.

**Tributes: **

_District One: _

_M- Crater Bolton, 18_

_F- Goldie Kamber,18 _

_District Two: _

_M-_

_F- Reyna Cabrio, 17_

_District Three: _

_M- Jem Elsinore, 18_

_F- Celena "Cece" Choux, 16_

_District Four: _

_M- Kierran Evans, 17_

_F- Marina Dawson, 18_

_District Five: _

_M- Rocko Warner, 16_

_F- Antiquity Northrup, 15_

_District Six: _

_M- Leonard Vah, 16_

_F- Scarlet Grayse, 16_

_District Seven:_

_M-_

_F- Copeland Dai, 14_

_District Eight: _

_M-_

_F- Ellah Fitz, 14_

_District Nine: _

_M- Edric Karling, 18  
_

_F- Maribel Styx, 12_

_District Ten: _

_M- Hobbes Shepard, 15_

_F- Carly Hutchers, 15_

_District Eleven: _

_M- Sabola Mattock, 13_

_F- Gwendolyn Long, 16_

_District Twelve: _

_M- Septimus Cheshire, 17_

_F- Skye Coleman, 16_


	2. District Twelve Reapings

**A/n: I'll be going backwards with the Reapings, since I wanted to get started. **

**Just a reminder: I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO CHANGE ALL TRIBUTES. I won't do drastic things (okay, maybe a few) but I will try to stick to the basic concept of your character. These tributes need to flow well together, and if there just so happens to be a lot of similar characteristics… well, they are most likely going to be changed. I'm sorry!**

**Presenting: District Twelve! **

_**District Twelve, Septimus Cheshire, 17**_

"Here you go, Myrta," I say, handing the marbled loaf of bread to the old woman. Marta is at the Hob more than anyone else I know, selling her herbs at an old, bedraggled stall in the back corner. Sure, she has a garden at home, but if her things don't sell, she'll starve.

Lots of people rely on me. And I'm okay with that.

"You'd better get home, dear," she says to me, holding both of my hands in hers. "Take care of those brothers of yours while you've got the time." When I pull my hand away, there is a gold coin in my palm. I shake my head at her, smiling, and drop it into her till.

"Nice try, Myrta. See you tomorrow."

Several of the people at the stalls smile and nod at me as I pass by. I never sell anything; but I'm here often enough for them to know my face. I have probably fed half of their families on more than one occasion.

"Sep," I hear, as I walk on the long, winding road back to my tiny house. I turn, only to see Melinda rushing toward me, in a flurry of hot pink tutus and three long braids. "Where are you headed?" she falls into step beside me and grabs my hand.

"Home. I have to check on my brothers before the siren sounds. What about you? Why aren't you at home?"

"Just making my rounds to see you and Car before we start. I wanted to see how you were doing."

I smile. As one of my best friends, Mel knows me better than anyone else in the world, and she knows that I panic on Reaping Day. Not for myself, but for my three younger brothers. If they were taken, I could not live with myself. As soon as Robert became old enough, I vowed that I would never let any of my brothers into the Hunger Games.

"I'm alright. Everything will be fine once today is over."

Melinda eyes me sideways, and her voice lowers as she asks, "Have you trained today?"

"No. There's too many Peacekeepers around." We drop the conversation, but I longingly look toward the meadow where my sword lays, hidden, in a log. Swordsmanship classes were permitted years ago, but they are now outlawed. Like everything else.

My tiny ranch house comes into view and Melinda gives me a swift kiss on the cheek. "Love you, Sep. Carol and I will come over after the reaping is over." I nod and smile, and enter my house to a commotion.

"What's going on?" I shout, as I hurriedly pull Isaac off of George. Isaac is panting, red-faced, and George, at eleven, is nursing a quickly swelling eye and a split lip. "What the hell are you doing, Isaac? Pick on someone your own size!" From the corner of the room, Robert snorts, and I shoot him a glare. "What happened?"

"George said some dumbass comment about Isaac's girlfriend getting reaped. He deserved what he got."

I look sympathetically at Isaac, who grinds his teeth and runs out the front door. "Yeah, but even then…" I approach George, but he retreats, glaring at me. "Georgie, you know better than to pick on Isaac. His temper is worse than the rest of us put together."

Before George can retort, the siren wails that calls all of us to the town square. Robert shoots me a look, and I put my hand on George's back, between his shoulder blades. "Come on, bud. We're a family, we'll pull through." We exit the house and enter the square as brothers, a picture of solidarity; hoping to be a sort of a slap in the face to the Capitol.

We are family, and you can't take us down.

When we enter the square, everything is tension and hushed whispers. George goes off to find Mom and Dad, and Robert and I take our places in our designated lines. I catch Carol's eye across the aisle and she gives me a shy wave. I wink at her and she blushes.

When the click-clack of our escort's heels is heard on the stage, we all fall silent. She's not new, but I don't remember her name. Her lavender hair is piled high on top of her head like a beehive, and she purses her orange lips. She reminds me of some sort of tropical bird, and Carol and I exchange glances. "District Twelve! Happy Hunger Games!" A short video is shown, which I almost doze off during, and then she's walking to the girls bowl. "Ladies first, as usual." Her hand dips into the bowl, and I find my heart beating much faster and harder than usual. Melinda took out tesserae this year, and Carol the year before last…

"Skye Coleman!"

A girl from the same row as Melinda steps forward, looking extremely determined. Her blank expression shows nothing of her emotions, and I applaud her for her confidence. "Come forward, Miss Coleman," the bird lady coos, and I breathe out a momentary sigh of relief. My friends are safe, at least for this year.

The girl tribute takes her seat next to Haymitch Abernathy, the fairly new mentor. He won his games when I was nine; not by strength or fighting ability, but purely by intelligence and cunning. I used to idolize him, until I found him in the Hob, buying alcohol from the Healer and guzzling it on the way home.

I pity the tributes that have to receive advice from him.

"And now for the boys!" She reaches into the ball on the other side of the stage, and pulls out a tiny slip of paper. I am praying to whoever is listening that the name of Cheshire is not printed on that paper.

"Baker Timbrook!"

I let out a sigh of relief, breathing a thin stream of air through my pursed lips. That is, until I see the boy that has been reaped is coming to the stage out of the twelve-year-old row. He reminds me almost painfully of George.

"I volunteer!" I shout, stepping forward before I can stop myself. Robert, George, and Isaac's shouts echo in my ears as I walk to the stage. My feet are taking me to the stage of their own accord, because I feel frozen. _Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left. _

The escort welcomes me to the stage with open arms and I tell her my name, and as I turn around I see the horrified faces of everyone that I love.

_**District Twelve, Skye Coleman, 16**_

I watch Ronn as he whittles away at the arrow, his hand carving intricate designs in the wood. This particular set is a special gift for our grandmother—she no longer shoots, but she collects. The swirls and indents in the shaft would not be practical for everyday use, but she will love them.

"I'll make another set for you, later," he says absentmindedly as he sets the finished arrow aside and picks up another.

"It's no problem. My last ones are still holding together."

"Why aren't you with Kye?" He asks.

I shrug. "I thought I'd be with you. It's your last Reaping Day, after all." As I expected, Ronn's expression is not a happy one. He slams his knife down on the back counter, gets up, and storms around the woodshed. When my brother gets angry like this, which is often, I don't know how to handle him. He reminds me of Dad sometimes; not like I remember so well, but I remember enough.

The fire consumed our house when I was five—mine and Ronn's room going up in flames first, the result of a spilled candle. I suppose it was my fault, when you think about it. I have been consoled a thousand different ways—_it could have happened to anyone, Skye. It was an accident. The coal. It was the coal that made everything catch so fast. _My parents died, when they rushed into our room to make sure we got out okay.

Ronn was the one that saved me. He broke the tiny window and pushed me out first. My arms and torso are riddled with tiny scars from the glass, but I suppose it's better than burn scars.

"Last reaping day, huh?" he exclaims, and I want to cry. He scares me when he gets like this, but I know his anger is a result of the fire. Just like my nightmares. "It's not like your name isn't in there just as many times as mine. The Reapings won't be over for me until you're done. And then if we have kids, it'll be real for us then, too. We're in this until we die, Skye. There's no getting out."

"Keep your voice down," I hiss. "Do you want Grandma to hear you talking like that? What about the Peacekeepers walking past our house right now?" I gesture out the tiny window and there are at least ten Peacekeepers, marching in formation, right in front of our front garden. "You're not going to change anything by talking." One of the men looks my way and I wave, a fake smile plastered to my face. "Shut up, sometimes, Ronn."

Before he can answer, the siren sounds and we are forced to get up, leaving the arrows and Ronn's bad mood behind. He grasps my hand and we exit together.

When we reach the square, he leans over and kisses my forehead. "Meet me after?" I nod and take my place in the line, staring forward. After a few minutes, the escort takes the stage—a short, stocky woman with colorful hair. These Capitol people think they look so incredible compared to us, coming into the Districts with their brightly colored hair and outfits. I just want to laugh at them, though—honestly, it's ridiculous.

I try not to think about my kind-of fight with Ronn. It will be done and over with when we both get home, when we are filled with relief that we get to survive another year. All will be forgiven.

"Happy Hunger Games!" The Capitol woman says, much too loudly. A few rows down from me, a girl is crying—from fear, most likely. I want to shake her by the shoulders and tell her that crying makes her appear weak… nothing any of us do can stop the Capitol and their sick, twisted Games. "Ladies first!"

I watch her, extremely uninterested. She pulls the name out of the bowl and I am thinking about turning around and going home, just so I do not have to deal with any of this nonsense anymore. The name leaves her lips before I have a chance to make another decision.

"Skye Coleman."

_What? _

My feet feel as if they are filled of lead, but I hold my head high and walk to the stage, ignoring everyone around me. _I will not back down. They do not own me. _I shake hands with the escort and take my seat next to the stringy-haired mentor, who reeks of alcohol.

"Good job, sweetheart," he sneers at me, and I turn my head away from him, scanning the crowd for Ronn. He is nowhere to be seen, even in the Eighteen's row. _Please don't get reaped, Ronn. I've signed my death certificate already. Grandma doesn't need you dead too. _

A seventeen year old boy volunteers this year, and as far as I can tell, it wasn't for a sibling. I think about asking him if he has a death wish, but I decide against it. I don't want to make enemies before the games even start. We are instructed to shake hands, and I notice an obvious glint in his eye and he raises an eyebrow at me. _Friends? _

I imperceptibly nod my head, and I think I have already made an ally.

_**District Twelve, Septimus Cheshire, 17**_

"Septimus, what were you thinking?" Mom wails, coming through the door a mess of tears and flailing limbs. She throws herself at my feet, her forehead resting on my shoes. "You're leaving us, you're going—your brothers, what will they do…"

"Mom," I say gently, kneeling and easing her upward so she is in a sitting position. "I couldn't just let him go. He was so young. He reminded me of Georgie."

George, Robert, and Isaac are sitting on the velvet couch, and I tightly hug each of them in turn. "You guys stay strong. Take care of Mom and make sure Dad doesn't stop working. You can do this. I can do this." George is openly sobbing, Isaac has a few tears rolling down his cheeks, and Robert looks incredibly solemn.

"You idiot," he says, and pulls me into a bone-crushing embrace. George and Isaac pile on, and I think somewhere in this, I start to cry. "You better come back."

"You know I'll try."

"You have training—"

"I can't show them—"

"But you're District Twelve!"

"Septimus—"

The Peacekeeper opens the door widely, outstretching an arm. "Time's up."

"Septimus!"

And then I am alone, surrounded by silence, my brothers' tears on my shirt.

_**District Twelve, Skye Coleman, 16**_

My confident façade begins to slip when I am alone in the holding room. I know that my grandparents and Ronn are coming to see me soon, but I can't help but break down. I've never been lonelier in my life, even when my parents burned to death in a house fire that I started.

I am going to die, and there are only three people in the world that will miss me.

"Skye," I hear, and see my family hovering in the doorway, tears streaming down all their faces. "Come here, sweetie," my grandma says, her voice thick with tears, and I can do nothing but envelop myself in her arms. She is so familiar: lilacs and cinnamon and _grandma, _and I breathe in her scent, knowing that it is the last time.

"Don't you go giving up on us, Skye Eleanor," Papa says sternly, his wobbling fingers firm on my shoulder. "You're stronger than you think you are."

**A/n: It's not my best, but I hope you liked it! If you haven't submitted a tribute yet, go right ahead. Tons of spots open still! **


	3. District Eleven Reapings

**A/n: Wow guys. I'm really sorry. This has taken me forever to get this up… I was camping for the long weekend and then I had to work a 50 hour work week. Forgive me! I'm back! **

**There are still tons of male spots open. Even if you have submitted a tribute already, go ahead and PM me. Fill those babies up! **

_**District Eleven, Gwendolyn Long, 16**_

"Gwen, pass the milk, please," Mama says, outstretching an arm. I roll my eyes, but do as she asks. _She could have reached it. _Mama notices, but ignores it. My parents know better than to argue with me on Reaping Day.

I scowl into my eggs and try not to think too much about the Capitol. If I do, I'll start ranting and never stop.

Reaping Day is also the day that we remember Qynn. So it's a little somber in my house.

"Have you heard about the new District history teacher at your school, Gwendolyn?" Daddy says, eyeing me under his spectacles.

I slam down my fork and scrape my chair back from the table. "Enough with this damn small talk! Can't we just talk about what we're all glossing over? Qynn got sent to his death two years ago today. He got gutted by a Career and we got his intestines in a box. So what? I'm over it!"

I immediately regret my outburst. Mama is staring at the wall, white as a ghost, tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Daddy is looking at me like has no clue who I am. "Go to your room, Gwendolyn."

Maybe I should have left out the intestine bit.

"I'm leaving," I say, practically tossing my plate and fork into the sink. "See you after the Reaping."

"Gwen—"

I exit the house, just wanting to get away from the house and the store, which on a normal day would be booming with customers. I inhale the summer air, which is ripe with the sweet smell of wheat and oats. The District is strangely quiet—no children whooping and yelling and cheering in the orchards. They are all locked up inside their houses with their Mommies and Daddies today, enjoying one last day in safety…at least this year.

This whole Hunger Games hype makes me sick. It's bad enough that the Capitol wants us to treat it like a sport… but the real thing that gets everyone's attention is the fear, and the constant mourning. If everyone acted as if they were above it all, as if they weren't phased by the Capitol, there wouldn't be a Games.

I find myself in the clearing: a small grassy section of the schoolyard surrounded by a circle of trees. Qynn and I used to come here before he got reaped to get away from Mama and Daddy. We would play tic tac toe with stones on the ground, talk, or fight. His absence is the greatest here.

"Qynn, if I get reaped today, I'll see you soon." I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. I sit like that for a few minutes, reminiscing. Not long after, the siren makes me jump and I stand with a sigh, heading to the town square.

I take my place in line, nodding politely to the girls around me. Sure, we're friendly when school is in session, but when summer comes around, everyone loses touch. I don't even remember most of their names.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Eleven!" Our escort says, looking extremely bored. "Girls, are you ready?" She plucks out a slip of paper without much introduction, and I can hear Qynn's voice in my head. _Show them how strong you are, Gwenny. Volunteer. Do it. _

I open my mouth to yell, blindly following Qynn's orders just like I always used to. The escort gets there first, though. "Gwendolyn Long! Congratulations!"

My jaw drops in shock. Without hesitation, excitedly, I push through the throng of people to the stage where the escort stands just as shocked as me. It's not very often when the tribute from an outlying district is excited to be reaped. "Thank you," I say quickly into the woman's microphone. "I'm so excited to have been chosen."

There are a thousand faces staring back at me, dumbfounded.

_**District Eleven, Sabola Mattock, 13**_

The girl walks past my hiding spot and I almost squeal with excitement. She looks about fifteen or sixteen, and is wearing a really pretty dress—white, puffy, and so _clean. _

Perfect.

She gets closer and closer to the leaves on the ground…closer…closer…bam! She steps on one and disappears, falling into the pit with a high-pitched scream and a splash of mud.

I cover my mouth with my hand, but it isn't stopping me from _laughing hysterically. _I push through the trees and run up to the pit I dug, peering inside.

The girl in the pretty dress is sitting about four feet down at the bottom, covered head to toe in mud. Her hair is matted with it, her head covered.

I really did a good job this time.

"Did you do this?!" she screeches, looking more and more like a mud monster every minute. I can't hide my laughter any more.

"You look so stupid!" I say through fits of giggles.

_"Get me out!"_ the girl yells, and now she looks like a _furious _mud monster.

"See you at the reaping!" I say cheerfully, giving her a friendly wave and skipping off to the square.

I almost feel sorry for the girl in the hole- let's hope she doesn't get reaped!

The large square is already packed with people when I get there, and I find myself wondering if I missed the siren. I take a seat on my regular bench (I think I might have even slept on it once or twice) and wait for the festivities to begin.

A few times, I think I catch a glimpse of one of my brothers, but I convince myself otherwise. Not like they would want to talk to me anyway, now that I'm the cool brother who left home at the age of thirteen. They're all cramped in that tiny house, with not enough food to pass around between them. Me, on the other hand… I almost have the whole District to myself.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Eleven," the escort says, sounding exactly how I feel—bored. She looks pretty shabby this year, and I think about yelling that in the silence, but decide against it when I realize she is already putting her hand in the girls' bowl.

Some girl with ratty black hair is called, and she looks almost too confident. Cocky. Almost like myself. I like her instantly.

Absentmindedly, I look around at all of the boys standing stock-still in the too-perfect lines, and I find myself noticing all of their flaws. Too skinny. No muscles. Too slow-looking. Would a single one of them stand a chance in the Hunger Games?

Except for me, myself, and I. I would kick some wimpy District ass in the Hunger Games, and the Careers would be terrified of my wit. My mind is made up the second the bored lady picks a name out of the bowl.

"I volunteer!" I say loudly and proudly, and step forward. All eyes turn toward me, and the majority turn away with an eye roll. Yes, I am that well-known. Everyone secretly hates me because they know how good I am at everything. I ignore the escort when she tries to shake my hand and take my place on the stage, right next to the ratty girl.

Everyone is staring at me.

That's right. Be jealous.

_**District Eleven, Gwendolyn Long, 16**_

I sit in the tiniest room I have ever seen, my hands shaking from either anxiety or excitement… I'm not entirely sure which. I have bittersweet feelings about entering into the Games. I am extremely unafraid, but I am not looking forward to being surrounded by brainless Capitol people the next few weeks.

I wonder if I will have all of the same people that Qynn did.

Qynn.

Oh, how I wish that he was here to send me off.

The door opens and I quickly whirl around, only to see Mama and Daddy entering, their tear-stained faces obviously illustrating their mood. "Oh, my Gwendolyn," Mama coos, embracing me way too tightly.

I want to be sick.

"Mama," I cringe, a look of disgust on my face. "Mama. Get off me. I'm fine." I gently push her away, and Dad takes his turn embracing me.

"Gwen," he says bravely holding it together. "I have faith in you."

"I'm going to win, Daddy. You don't need faith."

_**District Eleven, Sabola Mattock, 13**_

"Your family is here, boy," the Peacekeeper pokes his head in the door. This is one of the nicer ones; the one that won't kick me off the bench if he sees me sleeping there. "You don't want to see them?"

"No, sir," I say happily. "I'll see them again in two months anyway. Tell them they can watch me on the television."

**A/n: That was painful. Review please! **


End file.
